


Things Don't Always Work Out

by Pocketfullof



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Fluff and Angst, fitz has many professions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pocketfullof/pseuds/Pocketfullof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons has her life mapped out: the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect house.  Why then, does she feel as if something important is absent in her perfectly planned out world?  A friendly stranger helps Jemma learn what is missing in her life, and that – perhaps – perfect is not what it’s cracked up to be.</p><p>For Mech_Bull, whose request I'll save to the end, so I don't give anything away.  I hope you enjoy.  And I hope your Galentine's/Valentine's celebrations were fantastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MechBull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechBull/gifts).



Jemma Simmons does not believe in fate. She’s intelligent enough to recognize that luck plays a hefty role in many people’s success rate, but she also knows that luck will only get you so far; hard work and tenacity are necessary to propel you beyond what providence bestows.

Still, she wonders if fate has anything to do with the fact that she is at this particular party with _this_ particular, well-dressed man, right when she is coming off a successful conference talk and feeling remarkably confident (though perhaps the free conference cocktails have a hand in that last point). 

She studies her new companion as he asks, “A drink, Dr. Simmons?” 

Jemma, more than a little flattered, allows a small smile. He is quite handsome, if in a corporate sort of way, and though she has no intention of a romantic dalliance with him, the attention is agreeable just the same. “Thank you,” she says. “That would be lovely, Dr. Quinn. Vodka soda, if it’s not too much trouble,” she says to the bartender, who sends a brief nod and an even briefer smile her way before turning to make her drink. 

Earlier that day, Jemma had given a talk about a new method for quantitative evaluation of neurological disorders based on EMG signals. She’d noticed Dr. Quinn in the audience before she’d even approached the lectern, but had quelled her nerves at the sight of him with a silent reminder that she was fully prepared. 

Their interests merge very nicely, Jemma thinks now, and if she can secure a position at Quinn Enterprises as she’s finalizing her second doctorate, she knows she can help save countless lives. 

Taking the offered drink from the bartender’s extended hand, she meets his blue eyes with a thank you smile, before his attention is pulled away. She watches his sand-coloured curls for a moment before turning back to Quinn. When Quinn fails to put a dollar in the tip jar – an oversight, Jemma is sure – she digs through her purse to find her smallest bill is a five. With a shrug, she stuffs it into the jar. 

Quinn says, “Your work is truly ingenious. I believe we could offer you a promising position with my company. We’re working on a project that requires…” He pauses. “…some discretion. I couldn’t give the particulars without your signature on an NDA, but rest assured, our new developments are lined up to make a considerable amount of money. I could offer you a competitive, even lucrative, wage.” 

Jemma pushes down a niggling feeling at his word choice. Despite the fact that Quinn’s primary objective appears to be wealth, it’s impossible to deny that the doors he can open for her will help with her quest to contribute to the medical and scientific worlds. She takes a sip from her drink and nods, encouraging him to continue. 

Ten minutes later, she studies the card Quinn leaves in his wake, eyebrows pulled together. They have a meeting settled for tomorrow already. Here is everything she has been working toward for most of her academic life. Still – 

“Do you need anything else, Dr. Simmons?” asks a tentative voice with a subtle Scottish brogue to her right. Startled, Jemma glances up at the bartender, whose blue eyes are narrowed in her direction. 

“How do you know my name?” 

His cheeks colour as he explains, “I heard the man you were with say it.” 

“Oh. Well, no – well, actually, yes. Could I have another?” 

“Rough night?” He immediately pours a generous serving a vodka into her plastic tumbler. 

“Not particularly. What makes you ask?” 

“You don’t look all that chuffed, is all.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jemma says. “It’s only – you know what, never mind. I’m keeping you from your job. Thank you for the drink.” She takes another five out of her purse to drop in the tip jar. 

“Keep it,” he instructs. “And look around. The place has cleared out. ‘Sides, I think I read somewhere in my bartender job description that I’m s’posed to help patrons sort through problems.” 

Jemma grins and looks down at her glass briefly, her chest crowded with a sudden warmth, and she takes a deep breath before resting her chin in hand, leaning against the sort of fake-wood bar that always seems to be tucked into the corner at these conferences. 

“Okay,” she agrees. “Though it’s only fair that I know your name, seeing as how you know mine.” 

“It’s Fitz,” he says, reaching across the bar to give her hand a shake. His fingers are calloused, she notices, and his hand cold from the drinks he’s been handling. 

“Fitz…?”

“Just Fitz.” 

“Alright ‘just Fitz’. Here’s the deal. I was offered a job – “

“I heard.” 

“- At Quinn Industries, which is. You know, it’s a dream job and well, it’s huge. Bigger than huge. It’s – “

“Gigantic?” 

“Ginourmous!” 

“And the problem is?” 

“It’s all so capitalist, isn’t it? Dr. Quinn – he’s the CEO – he’s just so, well, to be gauche about it –.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s very money hungry.” 

“And that doesn’t sit well with you?” 

“It’s not that I don’t like money,” Jemma clarifies. “I just worry that they – Quinn’s company – don’t always put ethics, or, well, benefiting society, first. Do you know, I have to sign a nondisclosure just to interview?” 

“Sounds like they're pretty serious about their secrecy.” 

“Needless to say,” Jemma says, slurping her drink through her straw loudly. “I find my ambition at war with my conscious.” 

Fitz nods for a long moment, as if pondering her conundrum. He grabs a rag from behind the bar and begins to wipe down the counter. “Will you be able to do good work there?” he asks a second later. 

Jemma bobs her head. “I will.” 

“Can you get past the bureaucratic shite that always seems to come with these big corporations?” 

Jemma throws a teasing smile his way, feeling her eyes go wide. “I feel like there’s a story in that.” 

“For another time,” Fitz says. “This is about you. Can you, you know, this is your dream job, you said. Can you get over it for a chance to work at your dream job?” 

“For a chance to work at my dream job.” Jemma nods her head again. “Yes, I think I can. Problem solved.” 

Fitz throws her a quizzical smile. “Problem solved? Just like that?” 

“Well, you’re very good at your job.” She beams at him. “Thank you.” 

Fitz eyes crinkle as he grins in return. “You’re welcome.” He’s still wiping at the same spot on the bar top. His eyes linger on her face. 

A small thrill glances up her spine as Jemma tells him, “I think it’s clean,” feeling her smile soften and her cheeks heat. She feels a ridiculous urge to tell him how pretty his eyes are then, and chalks it up to the vodka. 

Fitz casts those pretty eyes shyly away from her, though she notices his lips tip up again. “Guess so.” He pauses then, gaze still trained on the rag in his hand. “Hey, can I ask you something?” 

Jemma bites her lip and holds her breath a bit expectantly. “Of course,” she says after a moment. 

Just then, a gruff voice shouts, “Hey, Turbo, can you get this stuff to the van?” causing both Jemma and Fitz to jump a little. 

Fitz smiles a little ruefully and shakes his head. “Another time,” he says. 

Jemma bites back the disappointment crowding her chest and nods. “Maybe at another conference. If you come to these things often, that is.” 

“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll see you around, Dr. Simmons.” 

Jemma inclines her head. “Mr. Fitz.” 

“And good luck at your interview tomorrow.” 

“Thank you,” Jemma says. “For, well – “

“Turbo!” the voice yells again. 

Fitz gives a small, one-handed wave and turns to shout, “I’m on my way, Mack!” rounding away from Jemma. She watches his shoulders and narrow hips for a moment before shaking her head. She has an interview to prepare for, and a dream life waiting to begin. 

* * *

When Jemma was fifteen years old and a bright-eyed, newly-inducted Graduate student, she charted out a plan for her life that she hasn’t deviated far from in the past eight years. In all honesty, most of the plans involve her academic and professional life, but she’s a healthy, attractive young woman, and also reckons that romance should feature at some point during her story.

She meets Dr. Johnathon Gibson just three days after beginning her new job, and when he asks her out for a drink after work, she agrees because, yes, it fits in nicely with her life plan, but also because he appears a good match for her. He is classically handsome in a tall, lanky, blond-crew-cut sort of way, and has a quiet though cutting sense of humour. She admires him very much for his intelligence and work ethic. They get on quite well. 

It’s enough to build a relationship on, according to all the fashion magazines Jemma had read to prepare herself for this sort of thing. 

After eleven months of dating when Jemma debates if she should renew the release on her flat, it makes sense to her when Johnathon suggests she move into his larger house. As she tells Daisy at the bar the evening after his cohabitation proposition, it is bound to happen eventually, and she does love him in a softly affectionate way. (When she says that last bit, Daisy huffs and throws her a pointed look, but otherwise remains uncharacteristically silent on the subject.) 

Almost one year to the day that Dr. Quinn first offers her a position with his company, she moves all of her boxes, her beloved bedroom suite (which finds a home in an upstairs guest room because Johnathan is a light sleeper and has very rigid specifications about the sort of bed upon which he can sleep), and her books into Johnathon’s five-bedroom, three-and-a-half bathroom house. 

Johnathon, ever practical, takes it as a good time to have the interior house repainted. Jemma feels a pint-size thrill at being the person entrusted with letting the painters Johnathon hires into the house that first Monday morning; there is something so deliciously grown up about it. 

She’s reading her latest edition of _Nano Today_ in the living room when a great white van slows in front of the house before pulling into the driveway. A very large (and nicely symmetrical) man climbs out of the driver’s side. Jemma rushes to the front entrance as he reaches to pull down the ladder strapped to the roof of van. 

When the door swings open, she is greeted by three faces, one of them familiar. It has been almost a year since they’ve met, but she isn’t surprised by the immediate recognition and satisfied swoop she feels when she sees him. His advice had been responsible for her job and, in a round-a-bout way, for her current living situation. 

“Mr. Fitz!” she exclaims. “What are you - ?” 

A weedy looking man in a white singlet standing beside Fitz on the large front porch snorts indelicately. “Mr? Shouldn’t she say doc – “

“Dr. Simmons,” Fitz interrupts him with a swift kick to the shins. “What a surprise.” He smiles at her then. 

Her answering smile feels spring-loaded as she says, “Bartending wasn’t your calling, then?” 

“You were the only person who ever tipped me,” he says, meeting her gaze. Jemma has forgot how truly blue his eyes are. She blinks rapidly; she feels as if a hummingbird has taken up residence in her belly. The world turns sort of fluttery for her. 

“I very much doubt that,” she tells him, still smiling happily. Finally, the large man beside Fitz gives a pointed cough. “We’re here to paint, Dr. Simmons,” he says, holding up the ladder as if to prove his point. 

“Right!” Jemma squeaks, stepping aside to let them into the foyer. “And, please, call me Jemma.” 

“This is Mack,” Fitz says, pointing to the large man beside him. “And this is Hunter.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Jemma shakes their hands before leading all three men from the foyer to the living area. 

“You live here?” asks Fitz. 

“Oh, well, I just moved in.” 

Beside her, Mack whistles appreciatively, eyes taking in the cathedral ceilings. “These are some digs.” 

Jemma clenches her hands together in front of her, throat closed up with a peculiar reluctance to admit, “It’s – my boyfriend has lived here for a few years.” She finds herself glancing up to watch Fitz’s face for his reaction. He meets her eyes shortly before looking away. Jemma can’t tell if he was disappointed or not. She looks down at her hands. 

“We’ll go get the rest of the stuff from the van,” Mack says. He turns toward the front entrance, though Hunter ignores him. Fitz turns to follow Mac, but then he hesitates, eyes flitting quickly between Hunter and Jemma. 

“What sort of work do you have to do to get posh quarters such as these?” Hunter asks, putting on a bit of a snobbish accent. Jemma can’t tell if he’s mocking her or not. “My mate called you ‘Doctor’. Is this the reward for fixing up scrapes and bruises?” 

“I’m not a medical doctor,” Jemma clarifies. She lifts her chin slightly. “My boyfriend’s first degree is an MD, but he also has a PhD in neuroscience.” 

“And what’s your degree in, Doctor?” 

“Degrees actually, in Neurobiology and Organometallic Chemistry.” She can’t help but smile smugly at the awe on his face. “We both work for Quinn Enterprises.” 

“Hey,” Hunter says, looking at Fitz, “that’s where you were going t’ get a job outa school, innit?” 

Fitz’s eyes swing rather wildly to Jemma. “Oh, well – “

“Did you?” Jemma asks. “What position? What’s your degree?” 

“It wasn’t – It was the, you know, the janitor position.” 

Jemma can tell he was lying; his eyes skitter away from hers, and his cheeks have gone red. Hunter makes an incredulous sound, some sort of grunt/laugh combination, though he remains otherwise silent. She narrows her eyes, ready to press the matter, when Mack’s return interrupts her. 

“Just the first floor, right? This place is massive.” 

Jemma has been staring so intently at Fitz, willing him to meet her gaze, that it takes her a minute to respond. “Yes, that’s correct,” she says. “The living room, kitchen, breakfast room, library and, the, um, the master bedroom. Yes.” She feels unexpectedly exposed just then, so she turns toward the kitchen to pick up a long list she’d typed up that morning. “Here’s instructions for you.” 

Mack looks them over. “Thorough.” 

Jemma beams. “Thank you.” She glances at Fitz again, who has his back to her as if to study the wall. She has the very distinct impression that he is avoiding her gaze. 

“Right,” she says. “The code for the lock is on that sheet, along with my mobile if you need me. I’ll just…I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

It takes the three of them five days to prep, prime and paint the designated rooms. Whenever she sees Fitz, a rarity despite the fact that she lingers in the morning over her tea before heading to work, he is quiet and skittery like a young horse. Jemma stays home from work on the last day, a Friday, under the guise of checking their work, though it’s clear to her from the first day that they are all extremely professional (even Hunter). 

She manages to corner Fitz just as he finishes picking up the last paint can, hand already poised on the front door handle. Hunter and Mack are loading the last of their tarps into the van. Fitz aims a quick smile her way but is as reluctant as ever to fully look at her. 

“You’re all done, then?” Jemma asks. Inwardly, she cringes; it’s clear they’re all done. Maybe she should have scripted out what she would say to him this morning. 

Fitz nods, eyes trained on his free hand as he picks at an invisible thread on his trousers. “We’ll be out of your hair.” 

“Oh, well, that’s good.” She swallows a lump in her throat. “You all did a smashing job.” 

“Thanks.” 

Jemma nods, even though he’s looking anywhere but at her and clearly doesn’t see it. “Fitz,” she finally says. Her voice cracks slightly. 

He does look up then. His name hangs between them. Fitz stars expectantly at her. Jemma is inexplicably nervous with his eyes trained on her face, but she pushes the feeling aside. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“’Course, Jemma.” 

She feels the questions thick on her tongue: why he’d never told her about his connection to Quinn enterprises, and why he’d clearly lied about what position he’d applied for, but the look of hesitancy on his face – almost fear – squashes her desire to pry. “You know what?” she says. “It’s nothing.” 

He gives a shallow nod. “Right.” 

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” says Jemma. 

“Yeah,” says Fitz. He nods again, a small private nod as if he’s having a conversation in his head, one to which Jemma isn’t privy. “Bye, Jemma.” 

The door latches shut behind him, the sound loud and echo-y in the silence of the foyer. From the narrow window beside the door, she watches his back, head ducked low as if his eyes are watching his feet as he walks away. She turns to look at the big, empty house that is now hers, feeling very alone. 

* * *

Two months, one week, and four days after Jemma moves into his house, Johnathon proposes. The whole thing is, well, it’s textbook perfection, rather like Johnathon himself. There is a fancy dinner, champagne, a horse-drawn carriage through the park, and finally the requisite man on one knee with a sparkling diamond. Jemma says yes – which is what one does, she reminds Daisy the next day – and despite the unease in her stomach that Kara from her lab promises are normal bride-to-be jitters, she is determined to succeed at this the way she succeeds at everything. 

During her lunch break, she leaves the office to meet Daisy at the dress shop six blocks from Quinn Enterprises Science Headquarters. It’s a pleasant autumn day, and Jemma is certain that by the time she lets the sun soak into her skin and the sight of sunset-colored leaves wash over her, she’ll be more than ready to try on a few puffy, sparkly, white gowns. 

As a treat she stops to purchase a tea for herself and a whip-creamed mocha for Daisy from the shop next door to her building. Just as she exits, trying to juggle the carrier for her hot drinks while shoving her change back into her purse, she feels a catch at her ankle. She gives a dreadful squawk as she feels herself going down when a hand catches her arm and propels her back to standing. 

The first thing Jemma registers is relief that the drinks are still mostly un-spilled; the second is the sound of many tiny and excited barks and yips coming from around her ankles; and the third is a pair of blue eyes situated beneath of cap of hair, looking just as shocked to see her. 

“Jemma!” he says, at the same time that Jemma exclaims, “Fitz, you saved me!” 

Fitz chuckles then, an easy sound so different from the last she’d seen him. “I also did the tripping, so it was the least I could do.” 

Jemma looks around her. Three small, white dogs – the sort you imagined celebrities carried around in giant purses – are tangled in their leashes around her and Fitz’s ankles. 

“Yet another job,” she comments before she bends to untangle a red leash wrapped around her left ankle. Its occupant is a little fluff of white, panting up at her beneath chocolate brown eyes. Jemma coo’s at him. “May I?” she asks, crouching low to pet his head. 

“Course.” Fitz bends down beside her, running his hands affectionately over the little guy’s head. “This is Charlie.” 

“Well, aren’t you precious?” Jemma’s left hand joins Fitz’s. For a brief moment their fingers touch as they both try to pat Charlie’s smallish head, but then Fitz’s hand stills, though he doesn’t pull it back right away. Startled, Jemma looks up to find Fitz staring at her left hand. She nervously pulls her arm back a little, thumb instinctively moving to cover the diamond. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“I’m – “ Jemma begins, but Fitz interrupts her. 

“I guess congratulations are in order.” He stands and quickly untangles the dogs from around his feet. “That’s…” he blinks his eyes and swallows. “That’s great.” 

Jemma nods, stomach feeling full of lead. She twists the diamond around so that it is facing her palm, hidden from sight. Her chest feels packed with cotton and an emotion she can’t name. She shakes the feeling away, though, and plasters a smile onto her face. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’m actually heading to meet my friend to try on dresses,” she says, gesturing toward the direction of the bridal shop. 

“Me too,” says Fitz. “I mean, not to try on dresses, but I’m headed that way too.” 

They walk in silence for a few moments. Jemma is hyper aware of Fitz beside her. The ring on her finger feels heavy and cumbersome, a weight she can’t ignore. The sudden awkwardness that surrounds them reminds Jemma of the last time she saw Fitz and how she’d let the opportunity to ask him about his work and his relationship to Quinn Enterprises slip away. 

His eyes are trained on the dogs when Jemma looks over at him and asks, “What were you really looking to do at Quinn Enterprises?” 

Fitz heaves a heavy sigh and meets her eyes. “I had applied for a position in their engineering department,” he confesses after a minute. “But my research was in non-lethal weaponry, and it’s not as… lucrative a field as Quinn Enterprises typically invests in.” The last bit sounds to Jemma like he is quoting from memory. 

“Why didn’t you tell me when I met you at the conference? I looked you up. Dr. Leopold Fitz. First PhD when you were quite young.” 

“Not as young as you.” 

Jemma bites back a smile at that, the knowledge that he had clearly looked up her name floating through her mind. “Nearly. And don’t change the subject.” 

Fitz shrugs. “I dunno. It felt a bit strange,” he admits. “I was there serving drinks and you were presenting. I just – “

“Well, that hardly matters. Fitz, your stuff is brilliant. I read your research on non-lethal weapons, and I was blown away.” 

He looks pleased as he glances at her, puffing up his chest a bit. 

“But why are you…? I mean, dog walking, painting – those are fine jobs – but why aren’t you using your degrees?” 

“I want to – use my degree, I mean,” Fitz says. “The dog walker, painting, those are because we just can’t get funding.” 

“We?” 

“Me an’ Mack…and well, I guess Hunter, too, though mostly he makes sarcastic comments.” 

Jemma has been so engrossed in the conversation that she doesn’t realize they’re close to the shop until they are nearly in front of it. Fitz follows her eyes as she takes in the delicate pink lettering on the sign over the door. 

“Your stop,” he comments. 

Jemma pauses beside the door. Inside the large picture window, she can see rows of gorgeous, elegant gowns. Daisy’s there, and it looks to Jemma like she already has a few dresses selected. Jemma watches as Daisy points to a beautiful ivory gown, one that Jemma likes almost instantly, though the thought of trying it on just then sends a queasy roll through her stomach. 

Jemma turns to look Fitz fully in the face. She takes a deep, shuddery breath. “Maybe you could…give me your number, and if anything comes up, I can…” She trails off. 

“My number,” he repeats slowly. 

“I have a few contacts,” she rushes to say, embarrassed suddenly that perhaps he thinks she is asking for purposes beyond professional help. She feels her cheeks go hot despite the fact that they’re just outside the bridal shop, a reminder of how unavailable Jemma is to do anything of the sort. 

“I could maybe help you network?” Her voice goes high and squeaky toward the end, and Jemma clamps her mouth shut, attempting to school her face into something carefree and professional. She pushes down the voice in her head that tells her she simply wants an excuse to stay in touch with him. 

She can see that Daisy has noticed her and is watching the exchange curiously. Dimly, she hopes Daisy can’t see how bright her cheeks are from inside the shop. 

Fitz is nodding. “Sure, that’s so – I mean, thanks,” he says. “I can put my number in your phone.” 

“I’ll just remember it,” Jemma told him, waving her drinks around and knowing the longer he stays, the more questions Daisy will have. “My hands aren’t exactly free right now.” 

After Fitz rattles off his number (and Jemma states it back), he gives her a soft smile. “Congratulations again, Jemma.” 

Jemma bobs her head. She swallows thickly. “Thanks, and I’ll, um, I’ll call if anything comes up.” With that, she turns to enter the dim interior of the shop. The cool air is a relief when it touches her cheeks. She watches from the door as Fitz bends down to untangle the dogs again. He’s clearly talking to them, which Jemma finds so utterly dear that her breath catches in her throat. 

She feels Daisy come up by her left side. “Who’s the cutie?” 

Jemma shuts her eyes briefly and laughs. “Someone I met at a conference a while back,” she says. It’s not exactly a lie, but she turns away from Daisy quickly anyway, too afraid her friend will be able to read her. 

Her fears are right on, of course. 

“Mmm hmm,” Daisy says. “So that would be the bartender-slash-painter who is utterly brilliant but not using his brains to his full potential, right? Um, what was his name? Finn?” 

“Fitz,” Jemma corrects automatically. She cringes. Fitz has stood by then and has begun walking away from the shop. He must be lost, Jemma realizes, because he heads back in the direction they had come from, toward Quinn Enterprises. She thinks about running outside to correct him, but takes one look at Daisy’s face and decides against it. 

Instead, she asks, “Do you still have Tony Stark’s contact information from that time you hacked your way into his party?” 

“Give that up, are you kidding? Of course I do.” 

“Do you think you could ask him for a favour?” 

“Sure. What is it?” 

“To meet with a very promising engineer.” 

Daisy huffs a little laugh. “I can do that.” She chews on her lower lip the way she always does when she has something more to say, studying Jemma’s face. 

Jemma reaches out to grab her wrist in an effort to distract her. She musters up a real smile and says, “I assume you’ve already picked out a dozen dresses for me to try on!” 

Daisy scoffs. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you for ten minutes. Try doubling that number.” 

Jemma lets out a real laugh then. Later, when she slips the first dress over her head, she studies her face in the mirror and can almost believe she’s ready for this. 


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about weddings is, once they get going, they are rather difficult to put a stop to. First there is a ring, and a “yes,” and then a date is set, a venue picked, food tasted and selected, and then a cake ordered. Invitations are addressed in beautiful script and sent out. Gifts begin to arrive, along with excited messages that pour in from relatives one has rather forgot existed. There is a rehearsal dinner full of out-of-country guests, heavily powdered cheeks pressed against hers, and finally a white gown, hair swept back prettily and a makeup artist who transforms her face into something so beautiful, Jemma is almost ready to admit that magic exists.

And then the limo pulls up to whisk her to a church. 

And out steps a man with light, curly hair and narrow shoulders. 

And when his bright blue eyes take her in, the expression on his face arrests her completely. It is a combination of awe, desire, and unmistakable sadness. Suddenly, Jemma stands poised on the knife-edge of a decision that she knows could wreck nearly everything she’s worked toward over the last few years. 

And she makes it anyway. 

“Daisy,” Jemma says, eyes flicking briefly to Daisy, dressed in a pretty turquoise gown with her hair swept back into a French twist. “I need you to do me a favor.” 

Daisy has paused beside her. “Is that – ?” 

“It is,” Jemma confirms. She turns to look fully at Daisy. “Tell my mum and dad that I’m okay.”

“What’re you gonna do, Jem?”

Jemma gives her a watery smile. “Tell Jonathon – tell him I’ll call him, and that I do care for him, and that I’m so sorry, but I can’t – .” Her voice catches before she can finish. “Tell him – “

“I’ll make up something really beautiful up for him,” Daisy interrupts. “You go.”

Jemma reaches out to hug Daisy. “Thank you.”

She picks up her skirts and runs to where Fitz and his limo are waiting. He stands unsmiling, simply watching her progress with his hand on the open passenger door. She comes to a halt right in front of him, breathing a little heavily, and watches him swallow before he opens his mouth to speak. She’s so close she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“Hi, Fitz,” she says, voice sounding too high.

“Je – Dr. Simmons.”

Jemma lets out a wet laugh. “I asked you to call me Jemma.”

Fitz shrugs, eyes downcast. “I figured I’d used Simmons one last time before you changed it.” His face is so expressive and so open that it makes her chest squeeze tightly. Jemma blinks and the tears that have been brought on by the sight of Fitz, balanced precariously on her lash line, slide down her cheeks. 

Fitz’s face changes. His eyes grow wide and his frown deepens. “Jemma, what’s wrong?” 

She swallows thickly. “I’m not getting married.” 

“Of course you are.”

Jemma shakes her head. “No, I can’t – I just – I mean – “

“Okay,” Fitz says. He springs into action as if he’s been waiting for this and knocks the limo’s back door shut before spinning around the open the front passenger door. Jemma takes one look behind her at the salon front where Daisy is waiting with her hand on Jemma’s mother elbow, as if to stop the older woman from rushing to Jemma and Fitz. 

Then she catches the weight of her gown in both hands and slides into the car, relishing the dark interior when Fitz slams the door and skirts his way around the front of the vehicle. 

“Where to?” he asks as he puts the limo into drive and pulls away from the salon.

“Anywhere. Somewhere I can get out of these clothes.”

“I can take you back to your house,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly keen on the idea.

“Oh, please no,” Jemma says in horror. “I can’t face that right now.”

“Would my flat be okay? It’s not far.”

“It would be perfect.”

The limo doesn’t fit in the car park, and Fitz spends a good five minutes circling the block to find a big enough spot before squeezing its length between two cars on the street. Jemma squints a bit as she stares out the window. The sun shines brightly and she doesn’t have any sunglasses to protect her eyes, but it’s no bother; she feels lighter than she has in over a year. 

“It’s a little messy,” Fitz says as opens the door to his small flat “I wasn’t expecting... I mean.” 

Jemma snorts indelicately as she precedes him inside. ‘Little messy’ seems like the understatement of the century. 

His flat looks rather as if a bomb of papers and clothes has gone off in it. Self-consciously, Fitz begins to scoop up the papers and shove them in a desk drawer. Jemma turns to take in the view outside the window in an effort give him time to kick a few items under the sofa. When she pivots back around, he scratches at his eyebrow and presses his lips together. “Sorry.”

Jemma shakes her head, eyes wide. “Don’t’ be,” she assures him. “It’s…well, it’s lovely.” 

Fitz gives a tiny shake of his head. “You’re being way too kind,” he says. 

Letting out an incredulous laugh, Jemma says, “Hardly. I just made you an accomplice to my – my –.” She can’t quite to finish the thought, and the silence stretches between them. 

Finally, Fitz says, “I’ll get you something else to wear!” in an excited voice, as if pleased to have a task. A moment later he returns with a folded sweatshirt (Jemma suspects from the wrinkles that he has folded it just then) and a pair of sweatpants. 

“Do you mind if I…?” She gestures toward the open bathroom door. 

“Oh, of course not. You do whatever – there’s bath towels under the sink. I’ll make us some tea.” 

The bathroom is small, with tan walls and a blue and white striped shower curtain. Though she can’t identify a specific scent, the small room smells decidedly male. She closes her eyes and lets the scent rush over her for a brief moment before moving to take off her gown. Its weight is heavy against her body, and the fabric is scratchy. She’s grateful for the zipper hidden at the hip instead of a row of tiny buttons she’s seen on so many dresses; she’d likely be unable to reach a row of buttons by herself, and she doesn’t think she’s able to emotionally withstand asking Fitz for help undress her, despite the flush the thought brings to her cheeks. Beyond the bathroom door, she can hear Fitz whistling something tuneless. 

For lack of anywhere else to put it, she folds her dress in half and places it carefully on the floor beside her white heels, thinking perhaps she can sell the gown later. It really is beautiful, meant to make someone happy. Jemma ignores the foolish need to apologize for the dress for wasting its charm on an unfulfilled promise. 

The water from the shower faucet is almost instantly hot, its steam quickly filling up the small space. She strips out of her underthings, and steps under the spray. 

Her initial tears are gone. In her deepest, darkest moments, she has imagined how this would feel, to call off her wedding to Jonathon. Certainly, propriety has always stopped her, but so has the guilt and sorrow she expected would overwhelm her in this act. As the hot water sluices over her body and Jemma lathers up with Fitz’s body wash, she discovers those feelings don’t surface. Yes, there is sadness and, yes, she is sorry. Yes, there is remorse, but mostly it is that she has waited so long to make this decision. She should have known, when Fitz showed up on her doorstep last year to paint. She should have figured the nerves she felt the day she saw Fitz on the way to the dress shop were more than bride-to-be jitters. 

Only three times – four if you count today – has she had the pleasure of Fitz’s company, and Jemma feels more connection with him than she ever has with Jonathon. 

She finds herself in front of a bathroom mirror, wiping off the condensation from her shower. Her face is bare of makeup, and her freckles stand out prominently against her pale cheeks. Her hair curls wetly at the ends. 

What is the appropriate amount of time she should wait after running out of her wedding to tell another man she wants to… to what? To kiss him? To touch him? To feel his hands upon her? But it isn’t just that, is it? She longs to talk to him, to pick his brain, to watch him smile and feel his eyes upon her. 

Perhaps it isn’t the most appropriate time to tell him any of these things, but Jemma has spent her life doing the appropriate, expected thing, and where has it landed her?

Propriety be damned, she thinks with a firm nod to herself, as she tugs back on the frilly pants Daisy bought her for the wedding night. When she steps back out into the flat wearing Fitz’s oversized MIT hoodie, she has made up her mind. 

“I made some tea,” Fitz says when he looks up from his spot on the sofa. His eyes take her in, moving from her head to the sweatshirt to her bare feet and then back up again. His mouth drops open just slightly. Jemma pulls a little at the bottom of the shirt as she makes her way into the living area. The room goes bright and hot around her. 

“I thought you could use this, too,” Fitz says after a long moment, holding up a bottle whiskey. 

Grateful at the sight of it, Jemma says, “Yes, thank you.” She rests on the sofa beside him, careful not to sit too close, and tugs her legs beneath her. Fitz pours them each a shot, and Jemma takes hers down almost immediately. The burn of the liquor feels like cleansing fire in her throat.

“How are you feeling?” Fitz fills her shot glass up one more time. 

“Okay. Better than I expected.” She turns to look at him. “I need to thank you. I can’t even imagine what you’re thinking right now.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Jemma, after everything you’ve done for me, I would gladly steal you away from your wedding day a thousand times.” He presses his lips together then and his cheeks heat. “I mean…” 

“After what I’ve done for you?” Jemma exclaims. “That hardly compares.” 

“That’s not true! You got us a meeting with Tony Stark and he’s offered to fund us.” 

All set to take her next shot, Jemma sloshes it a little as she shifts in surprise. “Has he? When did this happen?” 

“It was a few weeks ago,” Fitz admits. “A few weeks? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew you were getting married soon. I reckoned you had enough going on. I assumed that was why you didn’t call yourself to tell about the meeting. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Fitz,” Jemma begins quietly, looking down at her hands. “It wasn’t - you’re right. I didn’t call you, and it was because I was getting married, but – .” She is all set to tell him the real reason she didn’t call. It wasn’t because she was too busy, but because she knew that even the thought of him on the other end of the phone would send her to a place she hadn’t been ready to go. The words sit in her throat, heavy and terrifying. 

“Anyway,” Fitz continues as Jemma’s silence grows longer, “It was just finalized on Thursday, and we head to London in a few weeks.”

“London,” Jemma repeats slowly, trying to hide an involuntary blanch.

“Yeah.” Fitz’s eyes shine as he begins to speak. “Can you imagine? He’s funding us entirely. We’ll have our own lab, he’s putting us up in flats, and I’ll be closer to home. It’s like a dream.” 

Jemma smiles weakly. “It sounds like it,” she says after a moment. “That’s really wonderful for you, Fitz.” 

“All thanks to you.”

Jemma downs her second whiskey shot. 

“Do you want t’ talk about it?” Fitz asks then. 

Sighing heavily, Jemma looks over at him. He has changed out of his driver’s uniform and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. His eyes are bright blue, shining at her from the opposite end of the couch. He looks happy, Jemma realizes, and more relaxed than she’s ever seen him. It’s a feeling she recognizes in herself: professional success and excitement. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. There is no possibility of ruining that for him by telling him that their various chance meetings were even partially responsible for her current state.

“Maybe in a little while,” Jemma says. “Right now, I’d like to hear all about your plans for taking Stark Industries by storm.” 

* * *

Jemma moves out nine days after she runs away from her wedding. That first night free from the pressure of the wedding and subsequent marriage, Jemma had slept on Fitz’s couch (despite his insistence that she take his bed) and didn’t leave until 3:00 PM the following day when Daisy came to pick her up. Daisy, ever the wonderful friend, had already swung by Jonathon’s house and packed a bag for Jemma, promising Jemma a spot in her guest room until she found a place on her own.

She lets herself into Jonathon’s house one last time, armed with Daisy’s confirmation that Jonathon will not be there for the next few days. Daisy and Fitz will be over to help her pack, though Jemma doesn’t really have much that needs packing. Most of her kitchen items and knickknacks have been left in boxes stacked against a basement wall. Her books line many of the shelves, and her clothes are hung up in the “her” closet in the master bedroom, but as Jemma looks around the silent, pristine house, she realizes she hasn’t done much to make the house her own, a space where she feels comfortable, a place she can call home. 

Perhaps this is why the expected-sadness doesn’t take up residence in her chest. Instead, as she makes her way to the master bedroom to load her clothing into moving boxes, she feels a now-familiar sense of relief. 

She has just finished packing up her closet and dresser when she hears the front door open. From the bedroom, she hears Daisy say, “Jemma’s told me a lot about you all and your research.” 

Jemma’s exits the master suite to see not only Fitz and Daisy but also Mack and Hunter, all standing in the living room in moving-day appropriate apparel. 

“He brought reinforcements,” Hunter explains when he sees Jemma. 

Fitz shrugs. “They insisted.”

“It’s the least we can do for the woman who got us all jobs,” says Mack. 

“Sounds good to me,” Daisy chimes in. “I wasn’t planning on doing any heavy lifting anyway.” She grins and scrunches her nose. “Besides, we can trade embarrassing stories about our two science nerds.” 

Jemma laughs and feels a bright surge of affection, not only for Daisy and Fitz, but also Hunter and Mack. She pushes away the thought that by next week, all three men would be elsewhere, and vows to enjoy the day, despite the inevitable, bittersweet end. 

Between the five of them, it takes very little time to pack up Jemma’s books and the few items she has scattered around the house. Hunter, Mack and Fitz carry her four, heavy bookcases out to the same white van they’d used to transport painting supplies in last year. Jemma is very grateful for Mack’s bulk; she’s not entirely confident she, Daisy, and Fitz would have managed the weight of the shelving by themselves. 

When the van is full, Mack and Hunter take off with Jemma’s directions and front door key to her new house. Daisy slams the boot of her car and follows closely behind. Fitz is riding with Jemma, a decision made by Hunter and Daisy when they decided the only spot left for him was Jemma’s front seat. 

“D’you think that’s everything?” Fitz asks as Jemma looks around one last time. It doesn’t look all that different from when she walked in this morning. 

“I believe so.”

“You okay?”

Jemma meets Fitz’s eyes. “I really am. I don’t know if I should be this okay, but - .”

“You can be okay,” Fitz interrupts. “You can be great if you want.”

“I guess maybe I am great,” Jemma admits.

Fitz gives her an encouraging smile, eyes softening as nods. “Good. You deserve it.” 

Jemma doesn’t fight the smile that blossoms when she finds Fitz’s eyes on her. The silence that greets her doesn’t feel awkward or forced this time. Finally, Fitz shifts on his feet and nods his head in the direction of the front door. “I’ll give you a minute to say goodbye.” Jemma passes him the keys to her car on his way out. His hand is warm when it brushes against hers. 

She does one more turn through the living room, finally leaving the stunning diamond ring she never should have accepted beside a long handwritten note. She shuts the door and feels as if she’s closing a difficult book for the last time. 

The house she signed the lease for just yesterday is clear across town and much closer to the city. It’s small with bare walls and a square back yard. It takes under an hour to unload her boxes and what little furniture she has. The house doesn’t feel empty, though, just unfinished, and her beloved bedroom suite fits beautifully in the larger of the two bedrooms. 

Jemma smiles as she smooths her sheets out across the mattress. She’d offered to pay Fitz, Hunter, and Mack and send them on their way once her boxes were unloaded, but they insisted only that she provide beer and pizza while they help unpack what they can. Mack has gone to procure said refreshments. Jemma hears Hunter and Daisy’s good-natured arguing about the best spot for her dishes. Fitz is allegedly re-shelving her books (in the exact reverse order they went into the boxes, per her instructions) but she can hear his distracted and exciting mumblings every time he pulls out another science publication. 

Two hours later, when everyone has had their fill, Hunter and Mack leave. Fitz offers to stay and help Jemma and Daisy to finish up, though Jemma is not even a little surprised (or disappointed) when Daisy suddenly remembers a very important and early appointment for the next morning. 

As the afternoon suns begins to fade, Jemma and Fitz work to unpack the rest of her kitchen boxes. Jemma is nursing her third beer, and she feels a little loose around her edges, comfortable and warm. Her iphone plays something light and jazzy as she and Fitz work, their shoulders and hands brushing frequently as they pass items back and forth and move around each other in the small space. 

There isn’t any living room furniture yet, so when they’re finished, they sit on the bare wooden floors, backs pressed against a wall, and shoulders lined up alongside each other, and they debate about the best compound to put into the non-lethal gun Fitz is designing. Jemma tells him about her favorite London restaurants and Fitz talks about his mum. Before she realizes it, the sun has set entirely and the sound of crickets carries through the open windows. 

Fitz’s knees creak as he shifts along the floor. “It’s getting late,” he says, glancing away from her for a moment. “I should probably go.” 

Jemma has never been spontaneous. She has mostly always done what is expected of her. And she knows that by this time next week, Fitz will be across an ocean, working toward his dream. But she looks around the room, and feels the heat of his arm as it’s pressed up next to her, and she decides that this time, as she is learning that selfishness is sometimes acceptable, she doesn’t care. 

“Or you could stay.”

She watches him swallow and she watches heat flood into his cheeks, and on a very good hunch, she licks her lips, and she watches his eyes track the movement. “Jemma,” he whispers. 

“I know,” she says, reaching to smooth a hand along his bare bicep. He lets out a shuddery breath. “I know you can’t make any promises, and that’s okay. I’m not in any place to make them either. But still – you could stay until morning, if you want.” 

It doesn’t take Fitz long to decide, and Jemma feels a satisfied swoop of heat work its way through her belly as Fitz brushes his lips against hers. She has imagined this – there is no point denying it – and when his calloused hands brush at her jaw line, she lets herself close her eyes and lean deeply into the kiss. 

Right there on her new floor, in the meager light spilling out from the lamp beside them, Fitz kisses her mouth, the flesh behind her ear, her belly, and her inner thigh. She sighs when he leans over her, and when he shifts inside her, her name is like a prayer on his lips. 

* * *

It’s an early summer evening, the sort where the sun is just setting and the shadows grow long and blue, and she can just see fireflies light up in the small yard. It’s still early enough that the heat hasn’t reached its boiling point, so she has nearly every window thrown open to let in the sugary scent of freshly-mown grass. She is currently painting her new bathroom Robin’s Egg blue while Taylor Swift blasts from the speakers in her living room. The fact that she knows only 30% of the lyrics isn’t stopping her from singing off key and loudly.

She jumps slightly when she hears the doorbell chime. A quick glance in the mirror shows a bright blue paint streak across her left cheek, and her hair is pulled into a pathetic excuse for a bun. Assuming it’s most likely another friendly neighbor with a plate of welcome cookies or a pie, paint brush still in hand, she heads down the small hallway toward the front door. 

She turns the corner to see a figure pacing back and forth under her front porch light. Though his face is turned away from her, her breath catches in her throat. The set of his shoulders is familiar. 

Stopping a few feet from the door to take in the sight of him, Jemma reaches into her pocket to press pause on her phone, cutting off Taylor’s voice. The sudden silence causes Fitz to stop pacing. He pivots to look at her, and for a moment they both stand still, nothing but a screen door between them. Jemma remembers back to just a month ago, when he had pressed her first against the floor of her living room, and later into her mattress, how his hands had smoothed across her body again and again, as if trying to imprint the physical memory of her body into his form. She recalls his stutter of her name as moved himself against her. She remembers kissing him goodbye the next day with tears clinging to her lashes. 

Her eyes are wide as she takes a single step toward the door. “Fitz,” she whispers, “what are you…?” 

“London was awful,” he blurts out, loud in the silence of her quiet street. Softer, he says, “I mean, London is fine, but I was awful. I missed you and I thought – .” Whatever else he is going to say is cut off when Jemma flings open the door and launches herself toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She feels his arms come up behind her and his body mold into hers.

With her face pressed against his neck, Jemma asks, “How long are you here for?” 

“For…” Fitz huffs a little. “For as long as you want me.” 

Finally, Jemma pulls back, scrunching her nose at him. “What?” 

“I missed you,” Fitz says again. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know we haven’t really known each other that long, and I probably should have called or something, but I missed you, so.” He sighs. “I talked to Stark about relocating back to the states, and… here I am.”

His eyes are so soft, almost liquid in the porch light. Jemma feels her own crinkle as she tries to contain her smile. She fails considerably when she asks, “You transferred back for me?” 

“Completely ridiculous, right?”

“Completely,” Jemma agrees. She reaches to link their fingers together and leads him into the house. 

“I promise it’s really unlike me. I just… I was… and so I talked to Stark, and I never thought he’d agree. I thought I’d have to quit.” 

Jemma scoffs, though without any heat. “Of course he’d agree, Fitz. I feel like you might underestimate how wonderful you are. Just because Quinn couldn’t see it…” 

“Is that any way to talk about your boss, Jemma?” Fitz interrupts in a teasing tone. 

Jemma presses her lips together in a mock thoughtful expression. “Didn’t I tell you?” she asks. “I found another job.” 

“Did you? Where?” 

She bites her lip. “Working for Tony Stark.” 

Fitz barks out a laugh then. He brings her hand up and presses his lips against it. “So, we’ll be working together, and…” 

“Dating,” Jemma finishes.

“Are you worried…”

“That we’ll grow tired of each other?” She thinks for a moment. “I’m really not,” she answers honestly. 

“Good.” Fitz just stares at her. After a moment, he says, “Me too, by the way. I mean, I’m not worried.” He swings their joined hands back and forth between then. “What are you doing, anyway? Other than rocking out to Taylor Swift.” 

“Actually,” Jemma tells him. “I could use your expertise. I have it on good authority that you’re an excellent painter.” 

"Oh, you're painting," Fitz says. "Perfect."

Jemma scrunches her nose. "Not perfect," she responds with a tilt of her head and a smile. "But maybe even better."

* * *

The End – In my head, they get into a paint fight and have to shower together to wash it off – so you can let that image work its magic on your brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyhoodle! Mech_Bull, I hope you enjoyed this. The word count got out of control (that happens more often than not) but I had so much fun. Thank you for the prompt! 
> 
> This got crazy fluffy toward the end. I don’t know what came over me! I blame Fitz.
> 
> I hope you all had fun reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I promise the second half is happier. It's all written and will hopefully be up this evening, but if not by then, by tomorrow morning.


End file.
